The Funeral
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Phileas's thoughts at Rebecca's parents funeral


The Funeral 

At the distinguished age of twelve, Phileas Fogg did not have an established opinion on the matter of souls. He supposed he believed in them, but he knew he couldn't define what one was, and that to him signified there was something either lacking in the concept or in his understanding of it. Knowing that his nurse during his early childhood, a very religious French woman, seemed to comprehend not only the meaning of the word soul but also its various implications, Phileas felt that it was simply his understanding which left something to be desired. Had he read Plato instead of Homer, or Augustine instead of Virgil he would have known that men much older and wiser than he struggled with the concept of the soul, defining it as nebulously and applying it as tenuously as he. But the fact of the matter was that he hadn't. In fact, the concept of a soul had never troubled him until just now.

Still, at the age of 12, while sitting in the cold sobering Anglican cathedral and listening to the echos of a priest talk about the souls of the dearly departed, Phileas couldn't help but wonder about them. Did they really exist, or were they just nice things to think of when trying to deal with grief. Phileas understood the material world, his education consisted of history, science, mathematics and geography. Philosophy, theology, and poetry were all unfamiliar territory.

How could you prove a soul existed, the young Phileas wondered. Is death the only way to lose a soul, or can it be lost other ways? Could you live without one? Is that what ghosts are, disembodied souls? Could you catch a soul and keep it in a jar? Could you catch a soul? Could you prove, scientifically, that one exists? Were you wholly your soul and just chucked in a body? Or were you your body and the soul was just a pretty image for a beating heart?

As the priest droned on about walking in the valley of the shadow of death, Phileas tried to work out his conception of souls, tried to bend his concrete scientific mind to the subtly spiritual. Phileas discovered that he wanted to believe in a soul, he wanted to believe that there was more to him than the body that was easily broken and easily destroyed. He had been brought up on concepts that were eternal; duty, justice, rightness, equality, freedom. Phileas had to believe that part of him was eternal too. But proof, he also had to have proof. Otherwise this would be no more than a delightful, but ultimately empty, fantasy.

The funeral was over. The various bereaved were walking down the cathedral isles waiting to great the chief mourner, a little girl, and say how sorry they were for her loss. Phileas was aquatinted with most of the guests, lords and aristocrats mostly. There were a few of the lower classes who had known the deceased, the housekeeper, the cook, the gardener, the launder, etc. Phileas noticed that these people were by far the most earnest in their address to the chief griever. The housekeeper in particular, a rounded red faced woman with the remains of a cockney accent and a very thin and wet handkerchief, showered the young girl with affection.

"My dear," the servant said, her tears working their way into her voice. "Dear, dear Rebecca, I'm so sorry."

Rebecca didn't say anything.

Phileas suddenly found himself wondering what the housekeeper and the girl thought about souls. The housekeeper almost definitely believed in their existence, she looked like the type who would never miss church on Sunday. But the girl, he wasn't sure. Phileas didn't know Rebecca. They had meet, once, at her christening. She was six months old and he was six years. He had been unimpressed. Of course, as a general rule girls did not impress him. He had yet to reach the age where physical beauty alone recommended them. He had observed them exhibit behavior that he could not account for and that seemed totally frivolous, such as cooing over dresses and taking interest in the mundane details of others lives. 

He sat and watched the procession from their pew in the very pack of the church with Erathmus on his right and his father on his left. His father, as always, was still and silent, watching and constructing his thoughts with precision, but not sharing them. At nine years of age, Erathmus was not nearly so composed.

"I can't believe we're taking her home," he grumbled softly. This was not the first time he had voiced his opposition to the concept of adopting the poor orphan. Indeed since the announcement had been made a week ago during dinner, he had grumbled about little else.

"We'll be off at school, soon she'll be off at school," Phileas told him, recounting the best argument he could think off to calm his brother. The truth of the situation was that he despised the idea of welcoming a little girl into their house as well, but as the eldest he was expected to toe the line.

"But during holidays she will be there."

"So?" Phileas asked, "Father's duty is to care for her. Your duty is to be kind to her."

"I never asked for that duty."

"You don't ask for duty, it's given to you."

"Well I don't want it."

"Too bad."

The younger boy glared at his older brother, but didn't say any more, allowing Phileas to fall back on his silent meditation.

A soul would necessitate a god, he concluded, it would necessitate an after life, a heaven and perhaps even a hell. It would validate religion. It would justify morality. The implications were mind shattering, if only it was true.

Phileas's meditations were interrupted by his father's sudden rising. The procession of grievers had all walked past the coffins and assured the chief griever of their deepest sympathies. Sir Boniface Fogg walked up to the young girl, or more accurately the priest standing over her.

"Thank you for the inspiring service, Father," the founder of the English Secret Service said without emotion. "You honored my cousin and his wife well."

"They honored themselves with their lives," the priest said. He rested his hand compassionately on the young girls head, his pale skin a stark contrast to her bright read hair and the large black bow that held it up. "I only reminded everyone of that."

"Ah," Sir. Boniface said curtly. "Well yes," he then turned to his two boys, who were standing at a distance, watching. "Phileas, Erathmus, You'll of course remember your cousin Rebecca."

The boys muttered something along the lines of 'so sorry for your loss.' It wasn't really important, however, just expected. 

"Thank you," Rebecca said softly, and then she looked up at her new family and Phileas's heart stopped. It was there, clear as day, clearer. A soul. It was in her eyes, pouring out of her. Logistics such as where it would be kept and what would do after death fled his mind. Not only did souls exist, but his cousin Rebecca had an amazing one. All of her pain, all of her fear, all of her strength was on display for the world to see. He was amazed.

"Erathmus," Sir Boniface said coldly. "Go tell the driver to get the carriage ready."

"Yes sir," the younger boy said, before scampering towards the cathedral's doors eager to get out of the dark dreary place.

"Phileas, take Rebecca, I have to discuss matters with the priest."

"Yes sir," the older boy said. He was as eager to engage their new ward as his brother had been to avoid her.

The young gentleman stretched out his hand to the young girl, and she took it with a grace that was well beyond her years. As they walked down the isle of the empty church, following the footsteps of countless newlywed couples, Phileas stumbled around his wonder and found words. 

"Father prepared a room for you," he said softly. "You'll be able to see the stables."

She didn't say anything.

"Do, do you like horses?"

She nodded vaguely.

"Good," Phileas said, feeling ashamed that his conversation was so superficial, soul-less. "Good."

The reached the end of the isle and Fogg glanced back to see that his father and the priest were still deep in conversation. He wasn't sure if it would be wise to wait at the doorway or take her to the carriage. But as he recalled, it was a cold damp day, and despite her thriving soul, she seemed fragile and delicate, he didn't want to take her into the cold and damp. Or at least colder and damper. They stood silently for a moment, both intimidated by the other, when finally Rebecca spoke.

"I have a cat," she said softly.

Phileas didn't know quite how to respond to that. "Really?" he asked kindly.

"Yes, her name is Parsnip, she's gray."

"Oh," he said uncomfortably.

Rebecca, having divulged that information, paused. She seemed hesitant to approach the thing she wanted to say, which seemed odd to Phileas who believed her previous conversation was the muttering of an extremely bereaved child. Still, he was kind and patient. "Go on."

"Can I keep her?" The girl asked, she was starting to cry. From the redness of her eyes Phileas deduced that she had been doing a lot of that and she was probably nearly out of tears, which just proved he didn't have any conception of how much little girls can cry.

"I don't see why not," Phileas said softly. "There are cats around the house, the cook keeps a mouser in the kitchen, for example."

Rebecca took a shaky breath, obviously trying not to cry, and nodded again. Phileas found himself almost crippled with compassion for this young girl. "It's alright to cry," he said, placing a shaky hand on her shoulder. "We are, ah, family."

Rebecca tilted her head back and for the first time Phileas saw the smallest hint of a smile in her countenance, it was so simple and pure and genuine. It was, perhaps, in his childhood filled with subterfuge, the first thing he had ever seen that was simple, pure and genuine and just beautiful. Unbeknownst to the boy, he smiled back. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Phileas found himself wrapped in an amazingly affectionate embrace. She was crying again, but this time he was supporting her. Phileas felt the conflicting yet complementary emotions of empathy, grief, sorrow and joy as he comforted his cousin. All of them were surging in his soul.


End file.
